Grim Messengers of Doom
by Goldsaddletank
Summary: An adaption of the 'Grim Messengers of Doom' by enterprisingengine93, on request of rodimusprime215. Also this is my 200th story! Rated T in case. (Warning: minor character death. Idea belongs to enterprising engine93)


Rodimusprime215

One warm afternoon on Sodor, the Fat Controller removed his top hat, looking very anxious. Gordon, who was about to pull his usual Express train, noticed this gesture, and inquired into the matter.

"We need a new engine here, Gordon," he explained, "and I have to attend a meeting about one coming to the Island!"

"That is good to hear," replied Gordon, "so what's the problem?"

"I have to spend many hours on that infernal telephone trying to tie up any loose ends before the engine can arrive," The Fat Controller informed. "The Preservation Society wants to ensure his safe journey here to the Island. When it comes to an important business like this, everything has to be thought of properly Gordon, otherwise plans vanish into thin air, as can order!"

"So who is this engine, sir?" The blue Express engine asked curiously.

"Well, his name is Patriot, and I believe you may have encountered him before- back in 1957." Sir Topham Hatt replied.

"Indeed..." Gordon muttered. He remembered him all too well...

...

Later that night, a lonely visitor trekked up rails less willingly travelled and he soon found himself lost and baffled, as were his crew.

"Funny, I thought we were told we would end up at Knapford Station." The driver said.

"I just want to get to that meeting," Patriot admitted. "Or at least, go somewhere less creepy than this." He added, and began to reverse carefully.

"Leaving so soon?"

"Yeah, you only just arrived!"

The big green steam engine stopped as two diesels slowly emerged from the murky shadows of their unknown location. They looked similar, except one had stubble, and the other didn't.

Despite his fear and confusion, Patriot mustered his manners to address them

"Erm, excuse me, could you tell us how to get to Knapford Station? I'm lost."

"You missed a turn mate." One of them said.

"Yeah," agreed the other "but you can stay here for a while and rest your wheels."

Patriot didn't trust them- but he was going to be bound to meet strangers soon enough, and it was likely he would have to work with them, so he might as well be polite...

"Well, I guess I could stay," he said, "but not for long, though."

"Oh, yeah just stay here and give us some company, mate- just whilst the workmen... make a few objectives with your crew. We don't get new company around here all that much."

"Well, alright then." Patriot conceded.

The diesel without the stubble grinned. "Good, now, seeing as we're just getting acquainted, plus we are your honoured hosts after all, we might as well remember our manners, eh, Bert? I'm Arry."

"And I'm Bert. Who are you?" The one with the stubble asked.

"I'm Patriot. I'm a new addition to Sodor." he added, fear shaken pride edging its way into his voice.

"Well, we are being rude today-how about we give him a shed, eh Arry?" Bert said.

"I like what you're thinking! It's the cosiest shed you'll ever sleep in."

Patriot wasn't convinced, but his crew weren't back yet, so he decided that he might as well oblige.

The two diesels smirked slyly at each other as Bert buffered into him and they led him away. He hadn't heard the suspicious final screams of his crew.

But they knew all too well what was happening.

...

It was a very big shed. Arry and Bert eagerly informed him that there was a...refreshing air to the sheds.

"I see." Patriot said.

Soon, they were inside. The doors slid shut, softly cutting an unsuspecting victim off from the outside world, and a chance of being rescued.

"We got a white lie that we would like to confess with you," Arry said to Patriot. "We are bloody awful hosts! Push him in Bert! Hear him scream!"

Bert pushed Patriot into the fiery hot flames.

Each tiny flame licked away at his frames, weakening it bit by bit, the metal sagging down and Patriot screamed for someone to help.

His crew forgot to extinguish his flames, and Patriot exploded due to both internal combustion of fuel and outer burning.

As the remains burnt down amidst the flames, two workmen- one burly and strong, the other thin and pale- dragged in the bodies of the driver and fireman and threw them into a furnace, causing a claw to swing out from its position. It hung over the lifeless Patriot, and slowly dropped down...

...

"I am sorry sir. I have not found the engine." A tall thin man told him, putting away his magnifying lens.

"Confound it man! Is there really nothing?" A fat man in a top hat asked.

"Well, nothing to be heard of so far, but I will keep investigating." The sleuth promised, before walking away.

The Fat Controller buried his face into his hands. He does not half like the whole business at all. Two men and a Patriot locomotive had all vanished-seemingly into thin air- overnight! A child might suggest that it was a magical engine.

But the Fat Controller had one hunch as to how the whole affair of last night might've turned out- and there had been no magic involved.


End file.
